Seeds of Destruction (Part 1)

Cointhief · May 2

An unforeseen dentistry convention scuttled earlier plans to gather at the Blushing Mermaid, they were simply at maximum capacity.

A group of the regular drunks mounted a valiant counterattack, gathering a pipe organ full of hooch under the half-schooner that was built into the tavern, pointing out to the harbor of Baldur's Gate. They had prepared for such a moment for years, storing the apparatus in a humble shack tucked away from the main patrol paths of the old Steel Watch.

The Mermaid's previous owner was a hag who specialized in trading eyeballs, and the crew always knew one day their master fallback plan would need to be activated. They never expected dentists on the other hand, nor really ever thought through the whole pipe organ full of hooch thing. Nevertheless, the relocated barflies with their strange shambling dances down there and sloppy songs stirred up a few pinchy, unwanted visitors from the crabby sands, right down where the murky bay lapped against the tall yellowstone palisade.

Other than that, it was a nice view from up at the Singing Lute. Romantic even, perhaps in different company and different lighting. It was a quaint cafe just across the street from the busy Mermaid, the sole-proprietorship being a stone faced half orc everyone sarcastically called 'Tender Henk'. Tables were set and etiquette was observed in their preparation of napkins and freshly picked mountain Balsam in cute vases, peddled that morning from barefooted flower girls that snuck past the Fist's checkpoint shakedowns.

Henk had a full arsenal of drinks available, and it was certainly beer-thirty o'clock according to your hourglasses. His stock included some exotic mixes that drifted up from the traders and smugglers that really owned this part of the Gate. The food was good and came quick if you were the only one there...not the case now with you all and the other spillover from the Mermaid next door. Some rumored Henk had a twin brother named Honk, and the duo coordinated to never be seen together in some kind of sick game twins find hilarious. There was really no evidence to support such claims.

The last of the Chionthar fog had almost been strangled out by the afternoon smug, a sudden clarity of dazzling blue waters carried the crisp salty notes of the sea along with their glittering light. Nearby, the heavily guarded docks of the Counting House were bursting with toil...treasure chests full of diamonds and gold being loaded and unloaded with a banker's efficiency. In certain moments, a gentle breeze would linger down from inland, quieting the bustle of the city. In those moments, the long vibratos of high notes could just barely be heard, those caressing voices of the water priests dancing over the activity of the humongous harbor. In contrast the cold mechanus of Gondian cranehooks scuttled in formation like a flock of geese, plucking parcels of smokepowder, sweet potatoes, boltsmelting tools, Calimshan jewelry, and of course live horses from the passing merchant vessels.

The cafe crowd's banter was pleasant enough, or at least enough of a murmur to focus on the latest issue of Baldur's Mouth. Falling stars were the talk of the town, everyone from amateur astronomers to doomsayers had an explanation. The Mouth had hired a special investigator who was making a clink with a daily column, the intaglio ink portrait of the writer always showed the woman with dark eyes, dark hair, black clothing, and adorned with gaudy regalia...she always likened the falling objects to coffins. Others said the large droplets resembled seeds, like the two-faced patchy shells of almonds.

Of course the recurring celestial event was all signs at once, a bright spark in the night spurring the gamblers next hand, or the schizophrenics last tick before a spout of nonsense promising impending doom. A group of crayfish divers made a ruckus a few days ago, claiming to have found one of the space eggs in its rest deep below the river's rush. They had tales of gorgeous, sweet-scented living yellow crystals sprouting forth from artistically worked metals worth a fortune. They were never heard from again.

Anirys, headhunting initiate of Mop-Fu, enjoyed Prince Celsior the Astral Bladesinger's company as they took a break from their recent duties to meet a certain Captain Sartell. They had been sent to the coast ostensibly on a recruiting assignment, but in reality they had been pushed to contact the mysterious flumph Flapjack, a supposed way in to the underworld politics of the satellite city known as the Rock of Bral. To most in the city, Captain Sartell was just another runner of the Sea of Swords.

The Prince however had memorized the exact vertical takeoff speed of her galleon the Moondancer, and its maneuverability ratings at tactical speed. One thing the recently graduated cadets learned quickly: everyone hates a pamphleteer. Sartell was criticizing the stack of prints you had failed to pass out yesterday, reading the ridiculous slogans with a smirk of entertainment "...'we've got a nose for excellence'? Really? Someone actually drew this Turtle Ship with an extra large reptilian shnoz thinking it would boost your numbers?" pointing out the crude sketch.

The other eclectic patrons had come to the cafe by just as much chance. An actual cat taking an aperitif with coconut scones certainly caught Anyris' ocular sensors. A thri-keen played a strange instrument for tips, dangling a chitinous leg off the balcony without a care in the world. At the table near the kitchen a halfling was forcing crackers into a very confused chicken's beak for some unknown reason. A sky-toned genasai was tapping his fingers and feet watching a yacht far out on the waters snake deftly through a blockade. A rare noble from the Upper City was down here among the scrags, opting to dine without his butler for once. An inscrutable man with mismatched eyes seems immune to your consultations...

It was a lazy afternoon, and none of them could know the strange connection they would share when everything they ever knew would be torn away...unwillingly sacrificed but for the light of a distant star.

ooc: You all are at the Singing Lute, a small outdoors cafe along the main strip of Baldur's Gate that runs near the harbor. The cafe is at the top of a tidal wall, but a set of stairs runs down to the water front. Other paths lead deeper into the city, but what's the rush? All is well!

Edited May 2 by Cointhief (see edit history)

PureChance · May 2

Rush

Air Genasi Valkuryte Racer

AC: 19 (Splint, Shield) | HP: 43/43 () | HD: 5/5 | Speed: 35 ft. | Initiative: +0
Senses: Passive Perception 17, Insight 17, Investigation 10. Darkvision 60ft.
Str: 16 (+3) | Dex: 10 (+0) | ConSave: +2: 14 (+2) | Int: 10 (+0) | Wis: 18 (+4) | Cha: 8 (-1)
Languages: Common, Auran
Spell Slots: L1 4/4 | L2 3/3 | L3 2/2

Rush's callused fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the otherwise neat tabletop as he watched The Polakka slip out the harbour, Captain Linus threading the needle between two Fist ships with a judicious Gust. "Coulda got out quicker if he'd gone the other side and stole their wind," he judged, turning back to his drink and the dwarf sat next to him. He took a quick sip of his custom Thunderball cocktail - a pint of 'White Lightning cider charged with a shot of black Chult vodka. It had taken a bit of persuading - or rather gold - to get Tender Henk serving such a monstrosity in his more respectable cafe, but Rush was flush off his latest voyage. Even if he was between ships.

"I'm telling you Thordal," he continued their earlier conversation "I almost made it last time. Knocked another few seconds off before everything else got knocked off." The heavyset smith just shook his head with a chuckle. "You're a tree-brained idiot Rush. Denser than adamantine, though I'll grant your balls are made of the same. What kind of sailor curses out the Sea Bitch in the middle of a storm." A wide smile cracked the Genasi's face, showing pearly white teeth between pale blue lips set in an angular jaw. Changing subjects on a dime, he snapped out "I gotta new idea though. You know all these things falling from the sky? I reckon there might be something there to work with right? Fancy magic flying rocks..." The dwarf immediately shook his head, red beard jangling as the steel trinkets shook like wind chimes. "Nah-uh, ain't touching none of that. Not after what I heard happened to those divers. Have to find yourself some other smith. Not even for all the gold in Waukeen's sweaty pits." A frown rolled across Rush's brow, wrinkling the jagged geometric tattoos that broke up his face. It passed as quickly as it arrived though, blown away by the same invisible breeze that caressed the frosted tips of his white hair and set his obsidian earrings swaying against the popped collar of his deep blue captain's jacket. "Nevermind. Here, I thought we were getting some snacks?" He shot from his seat, rising above the webs of low conversation that had been growing as if a particularly industrious cave spider was working its way around the impromptu bar. "Can anyone pass over that bowl of olives there?" he shouted, gesturing towards the kitchen hatch. "Yeah, you'll do," he added, as someone had the misfortune of meeting his eye, "just grab it and send it hand over hand. Pass it on to that table there and they can keep going."

OOC

Action: -

Bonus Action: -

Movement: -

Reaction: -

Object Interaction: -

Actions & Resources

Actions:

Warhammer. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 1d8 + 3 bludgeoning damage.

Club. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 1d4 + 3 bludgeoning damage.

Javelin. Melee/Thrown Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., ranged 30/120 ft., one target. Hit: 1d6 + 3 piercing damage.

Shocking Grasp . Melee Spell Attack (V,S): +7 to hit, Touch, one target. Hit: 2d8 Lightning damage.

Sacred Flame . Cantrip (V,S): Creature you can see, range 60 ft., one target, no cover. DEX Save: 2d8 radiant damage.

Toll the Dead . Cantrip (V,S): Creature you can see, range 60 ft., one target. WIS Save: 2d8/2d12 necrotic damage.

Bonus Actions:

-

Reactions:

-

Class/Race Features:

FeatherFall (1/1 Long Rest) .

Levitate (1/1 Long Rest) .

Wrath of the Storm (4/4 Long Rest) . You can thunderously rebuke attackers. When a creature within 5 feet of you that you can see hits you with an attack, you can use your reaction to cause the creature to make a Dexterity saving throw. The creature takes 2d8 lightning or thunder damage (your choice) on a failed saving throw, and half as much damage on a successful one.

Channel Divinity (1/1)

Turn Undead
Destructive Wrath

JubalBreakbottle · May 2

Celsior Loriniscil, Prince of Alfheim

Inspiration Yes | HP 35/35 | HD 5/5d6
StrSave -1

Athletics, proficient +2 8 | Dex 14 | ConSave +2 14 | Int 18 | Wis 10 | Cha 10
Step 2/2 | Shield 1/1 | Bladesong 2/2 | Recovery 4/4
Spells +8 DC 16 | Cantrips | 1st 4/4 | 2nd 3/3 | 3rd 2/2

Celsior smiles staring at the sea from his chair and replies to Captain Sartell about their pamphlets, "it seemed funny at the time. Frankly, we've struggled to find any suitable recruits for the academy and wanted to say we tried everything. Which is amazing, considering that most people in this city want to leave."

He sips his glass of white wine and continues, "They just don't believe the whole space thing. And, I think they believe we want to recruit them for some demonic cult. Is that so prevalent here?" He relaxes as he does most everywhere he sits with the posture of a prince. There can be no doubt of his royalty. This tall, oddly colored elf with regal-bearing wears oddly fancy fashion with strange fabrics and features which highlight his porcelain skin, silvery inhuman eyes, and flowing silver, shoulder-length hair and subtly repeat a particular heraldry: argent, three-petaled flower purpure. A sheathed rapier, dagger, and purse hang from his belt. A dark mahogany crossbow gilded with green oxidized copper and a luxurious leather luggage case sit beside his chair out of the walkway between the tables.

"Are we meeting Flapjack here? Or, is he aboard your ship?" Always on mission, despite enjoying the scenery.

Mechanics

Active spells:

Action: -

DM-Tareth · May 2

Yahs shrugs a squishy shoulder at Sartell's criticism of the latest Fleet pamphlet's. The plasmoid could admit, the whole nose-schnoz campaign was a low point even for those in the Marketing and Promotions. Even now she could see several of the pamphlet's she'd left on the nearby tables being used as coasters or a makeshift napkin to sop up spilled beer. They certainly weren't drawing folk into the recruiting office. However, she wasn't inclined to openly criticize because she'd managed to sweet talk one of the new boys in Marketing to get her one of the last feathered tricorn hats left over from last year's Pirates of Penzance Fleet Fundraiser. The hat rode jauntily upon her slowly shifting features as she gazed out across the open waters sipping the blended mix of high proof grain alcohol and lemonade she liked to refer to as a four-oh-nine. It doubled as her go to stain remover and floor polisher as well, which is why the gith skull hanging on her belt smelled summertime fresh and gleamed brightly beneath the tavern lights.

Wrapped in a pair of lips formed slightly off center and much too far below her 'nose,' a cigar burns slowly. The trail of blue-gray smoke drifting with the breeze coming off the open water. She understood people's desire to leave the city. Ever since she'd arrived on Toril, she'd had an odd feeling that it wasn't her first time being here. Wasn't the first time she'd walked the dark alleys and filthy avenues of Baldur's Gate. Baldur's Gate and...some other place that still eluded her. Fortunately, she'd had their mission to keep her occupied. Thus even though they were nearly 100% ineffective, she'd done her best to put them where ever possible throughout the city.

Nodding when Celsior brings the meeting around to the real business at hand, she turns her lopsided gaze toward Sartell. The tip of the cigar burns bright as she waits for an answer and taps the growing length of ash into a small oyster shell tray resting on a bed of plasmic flesh extended from just below her neck.

KingGoblin · May 2

Klaktuk Cha-Pok but most people call me Steve

Inspiration Yes | HP 43/43 | HD 5/5d8 | AC 15 | Passive Perception 16
StrSave +0

Athletics +0 10 | Dex 14 | ConSave +2 14 | Int 10 | Wis 10 | Cha 18
Bardic Inspiration 4/4 | Chameleon Carapice | Thri-kreen Telepathy
Spells +7 DC 15 | Cantrips | Spells Known Slots: 1st 4/4 | 2nd 3/3 | 3rd 2/2

Steve continues to play his strange instrument, as he had been playing it essentially non-stop for at least the last several days. He had occasionally moved to different locations, different bars, but never seemed to stop playing, his music varying more by his mood than anything else. At the genasi's shout, he shrugs indifferently, and although he doesn't stop playing the jar of olives floats seemingly by itself across the barroom to Rush's table.

Overhearing the spelljammers' conversation, he perks up a bit. Being stuck on this planet was getting boring, and he had been feeling like it was time to move on.

<<The Academy?>> he asks, telepathically contacting the beings at their table, and anyone else who happened to be listening mentally in the area, his music continuing uninterrupted. <<I had noticed the pamphlets, but thought you were recruiting for some demonic cult. It wouldn't be the first time. What are you looking for in recruits? A bit of music always helps the long voyages through the spheres, and I'm looking to leave this place for somewhere more... Friendly.>>

At a glance, the thri-kreen looks like most of his kind, essentially nude with several belts and a pack strapped to his back. At his waist are two swords, close to his secondary arms, and in his primary hands is the master-quality cittern he has been playing non-stop. After the olives are deposited with the genasi, the thri-kreen's drink floats up and pours itself in his mouth, between his mandibles. It does not noticeably affect either his playing, or his telepathic communication, as he drinks. <<If you have a place for someone like me, I would be interested in applying. The name is... Call me Steve.>> he communicates, thoughtfully.

Mechanics

Active spells:

Action: Using Prestidigitation, invisibly, without verbal or somatic components, thanks to his Telekinetic feat.

Edited May 2 by KingGoblin (see edit history)

Harding · May 3

Raaol

Raol Whiskerdust Mew Warlock 5

Raaol's keen ears catch snippets of the various conversations swirling around the Singing Lute, the eclectic mix of patrons providing a colorful backdrop to the lazy afternoon. He listens with mild interest as Rush discusses his recent adventures, the tales of daring escapades and stormy seas painting vivid images in his mind. Thordal's gruff voice adds a touch of earthiness to the conversation, contrasting with Rush's more flamboyant demeanor.

As the discussion shifts to the strange objects falling from the sky, Raaol can't help but feel a twinge of curiosity. His eyes flicker towards the open waters, where the last remnants of Chionthar fog dissipate, revealing the glittering expanse of the sea. The mention of magic flying rocks piques his interest, but he knows better than to entertain such dangerous ideas.

Turning his attention back to his own table, Raaol takes a moment to survey the motley crew of adventurers gathered around him. Celsior, with his regal bearing and air of authority, commands attention effortlessly. Yahs, with her unusual appearance and enigmatic aura, exudes an air of mystery that intrigues Raaol.

Then there's Steve, the thri-kreen musician whose constant playing adds a surreal soundtrack to the scene. Raaol finds himself drawn to the exotic creature, his curiosity piqued by Steve's telepathic communication and mysterious background.

As the conversation flows around him, Raaol can't shake the feeling that something momentous is on the horizon. The falling stars, the whispered rumors of hidden treasures, the cryptic messages from distant worlds—all of it hints at a greater destiny awaiting them all. He's purring while sipping his whiskey and cleaning his mean looking pistol - a piece that is quite a contrast of his fine feline features - satisfied to have chosen this day to procrastinate the hunt for his arch nemesis, captivated by the unusual patron that settled in his favorite ''cafe'' (aka: tap house).

Mechanics

Main Hand: +1 Pistol
Off Hand: Shield

Action: Your action goes here.
Bonus Action: Your bonus action goes here.
Move: Your movement goes here.
Manipulate: Your one free object interaction goes here.

Edited May 5 by Harding (see edit history)

rauhric · May 3

Thom
NG Human Sorcerer "Aberrant Mind" [4] | Warlock "Hexblade" [1]
AC 12 | HP 28 | Initiative +2 | Passive Perception 13

Thom stared up at the sky and wonder about the significance of the meteor shower. Asking anyone within earshot he says in this world's common "Does this happen often?" Thom is not from this world and finds everything new and exciting. The inhabitants of this planet are too alien and numerous for him to understand, so he has resorted to reading their thoughts as a means of closing the gap of understanding.

Looking up longingly at the sky missing the view from another world he looks about at the strangers around him. He lets his new found powers briefly wash over the strangers to collect any surface thoughts they might conjure up when he asks his question; if they even speak common. Spending a few seconds on each stranger in his vicinity he tries to ascertain if this celestial event is normal.

"On my world we use to have meteor showers like this. I remember as a boy watching them with my father in our backfield, but this is way more impressive ... Apocalyptic even. Show we be worried?" With a curious look from his two different colored eyes he tries to make eye contact with the strangers. His powers tend to work best when staring into the souls of another.

OoC

Thom is casting Detect Thoughts at the moment to scan the strangers' surface thoughts.

He is holding a pamphlet in his hand if anyone notices.

Edited May 3 by rauhric (see edit history)

Semety · May 3

Minnifred "Fred" Stormcandle Mark of Hospitality Halfling Bard (Creation) 5

The chicken currently being fed delicious birdseed crackers was, in fact, not confused at all. Polly, as she was called, was quite used to being in the arms of this woman and eating out of her hands. Though the surroundings were less salty than usual - a far cry from the swaying decks of the Stormwrack - Polly seemed content. The general expressions of the "parrot" were probably lost on these strangers though.

The halfling woman carrying Polly was possibly more confused, murmuring fondly to the bird, "How's my Polly liking her crackers? Eat 'em up, that's a good parrot." She let her gaze wander enjoying the atmosphere. This cafe had a great view of the harbour, a welcome familiarity while ashore. Too bad the food itself did not meet her standards, such small portions, and not a decent fish cake in sight - this close to the sea!

As her gaze swept over the other patrons, Fred decided she'd had enough of sitting still. She needed some excitement, some company, something more than these measly pastries. But before she could pick her next target, her attention was snagged by a blue-skinned man calling for olives. Well, he certainly needed more than a couple measly little vegetable berries. "Ducky," she called, her high-pitched voice carrying surprisingly well over the cafe chatter, "you're a growin' man! Those salty grapes wouldn't feed a goldfish. Can you not afford a meal?"

Concerned by his obvious lack of appetite, Fred was about to reach for the bowl of olives herself when it floated towards him on its own. Not batting an eye, the halfling chuckled, "See, the olives agree with me."

Then the conversation turned to the falling stars. Seemed rocks falling from the sky was the news of the hour. Moving closer to be part of this conversation, the storyteller in her bubbling to the surface, she piped up. "This reminds me of the time the Stormwrack sailed right under a cloud giants' game of marbles. We thought the whole sky was fallin', we did. Nearly turned the crew to fish paste!"

OOC

Why do I suddenly have a David Bowie song stuck in my head?

PureChance · May 3

Rush

Air Genasi Valkuryte Racer

AC: 19 (Splint, Shield) | HP: 43/43 () | HD: 5/5 | Speed: 35 ft. | Initiative: +0
Senses: Passive Perception 17, Insight 17, Investigation 10. Darkvision 60ft.
Str: 16 (+3) | Dex: 10 (+0) | ConSave: +2: 14 (+2) | Int: 10 (+0) | Wis: 18 (+4) | Cha: 8 (-1)
Languages: Common, Auran
Spell Slots: L1 4/4 | L2 3/3 | L3 2/2

Shortly after his request, the bowl seemed to start making its own way to Rush. Thordal groaned in embrassament at the Genasi's actions, even more so when someone not only humoured him but joined in reply! Rush assumed some kind of magic was involved - a sprinkling of cantrips was hardly unusual in Baldur's Gate, and he glanced around for who to thank. The fancy dressed elf sat nearby looked a likely candidate for a wizard, with the unique fashion sense and clear air of superiority. However just as he'd been about to shout his thanks a little halfling spoke up from near the olives, casting doubt on his assumptions. "If you're offering to buy us something more we wouldn't say no little lady," he yelled back, apparently having decided to make sure the ex-cafe adopted an atmosphere more appropriate for its brief tenure as de facto pub "feel free to float along whatever you think we need to keep going!"

He catches the tail end of Thom's question as he returns to his seat, fingers already shuttling little green globes to his mouth. Anyone who happened to gaze just under the surface of his mind might find his thoughts like barracuda darting after shoals of silvered fish - or perhaps a particularly rowdy livestream chat depending on cultural touchpoint. "Never seen the like before, exciting though right?" he offered between olives.

OOC

Action: -

Bonus Action: -

Movement: -

Reaction: -

Object Interaction: -

Actions & Resources

Actions:

Warhammer. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 1d8 + 3 bludgeoning damage.

Club. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 1d4 + 3 bludgeoning damage.

Javelin. Melee/Thrown Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., ranged 30/120 ft., one target. Hit: 1d6 + 3 piercing damage.

Shocking Grasp . Melee Spell Attack (V,S): +7 to hit, Touch, one target. Hit: 2d8 Lightning damage.

Sacred Flame . Cantrip (V,S): Creature you can see, range 60 ft., one target, no cover. DEX Save: 2d8 radiant damage.

Toll the Dead . Cantrip (V,S): Creature you can see, range 60 ft., one target. WIS Save: 2d8/2d12 necrotic damage.

Bonus Actions:

-

Reactions:

-

Class/Race Features:

FeatherFall (1/1 Long Rest) .

Levitate (1/1 Long Rest) .

Wrath of the Storm (4/4 Long Rest) . You can thunderously rebuke attackers. When a creature within 5 feet of you that you can see hits you with an attack, you can use your reaction to cause the creature to make a Dexterity saving throw. The creature takes 2d8 lightning or thunder damage (your choice) on a failed saving throw, and half as much damage on a successful one.

Channel Divinity (1/1)

Turn Undead
Destructive Wrath

DM-Tareth · May 3

The sudden intrusion of a voice in her head jolts Yahs out of her interest in Sartell. The actual appearance of a potential new recruit being a much more unusual and surprising event than either the rockfall illuminating the sky or Flapjack flip-flopping about the meeting location. Looking about at the nearby faces her eyes focus in on the thri-kreen. Remembering their fellow recruit, Klick-Klack...Klickitat...Klap-trap...only partially remembering their former fellow thri-kreen recruit she does recall the fact that they could only communicate via mindspeech. Sliding out of her chair she walks over to 'Steve' and crinkles her facial features into a wide welcoming smile as she tips back her hat.

"Steve, I presume." She says facing the thri-kreen with the odd instrument. "Fleet recognizes that everyone has talents that can be put put to good use. And I for one would welcome someone with a new music catalog." She says in reply to the thri-kreen's initial question. "As for a friendly atmosphere, why I can say with all honesty I've made more friends during my few months in the Fleet, than my entire existence prior. And don't worry, even if you don't have any practical ship or spelljamming experience, folk like myself an' the Captain over there will get you up to speed on the basics in no time at all."

The plasmoid extends a vaguely hand shaped pod. "Ensign Yahs Anirys." She says proudly. "Glad to meet you Steve and more than happy to answer questions."

Edited May 3 by DM-Tareth (see edit history)

rauhric · May 3

Thom
NG Human Sorcerer "Aberrant Mind" [4] | Warlock "Hexblade" [1]
AC 12 | HP 28 | Initiative +2 | Passive Perception 13

Thom continues to scan the minds of those present. He figures someone has more insight into this meteor shower. Turning to the blue man that answered him he says "This whole world is exciting." Thom looks curiously at the man and continues, "Your blue skin is nice." On his world someone who is "blue" is usually sad or frozen. This man is neither.

Turning his attention to the large cockroach man playing some instrument Thom thinks to himself, "Is this my Naked Lunch?" He is referring to a surreal and chaotic piece of earth fiction that follows conspiracies and their influence on a drug addict's reality and difficultly maintaining linear time, not to mention his sanity in a world slowly moving into an authoritative decay. There is no Utopia in that story's future, and while he briefly dwells on that idea he continues to be fixated on the spectacular sight of the meteor shower continuing to rain down.

OoC

Thom is casting Detect Thoughts at the moment to scan the strangers' surface thoughts.

He is holding a pamphlet in his hand if anyone notices.

Edited May 6 by rauhric (see edit history)

Cointhief · May 4

Tender Henk could've accepted cranberry. But cider? There was anarchy in Rush's order. A slap in the face to all the Chultan distillers, and the velociraptors they rode in on.

All things considered the crowd was raising the half-orc's temperature an uncomfortable few notches. The unannounced dentistry convention had turned what was supposed to be a lazy afternoon into an irritating bustle. Not to mention the incessant misfires of the blacksmith up the street's new apprentice, who was apparently hammering his master's anvil more than the new coconut-scented horseshoes they were peddling.

So, when the olives took flight, Tender Henk caught a much needed break. The sunny side-up eggs he was closely monitoring turned out perfect.

When the Prince pressed about Flapjack, Sartell's pale, slender nose wrinkled ever so slightly. Brushing her dyed, violet hair behind a heavily pierced ear, she motioned out to the Moondancer "...oh, he stays aboard. Baldur's Gate is cosmopolitan, but not that cosmopolitan. And you're right, I've noticed the mood of the city has changed for the better. I suppose everyone bonding together to rebuild after that 'tadpole' incident has turned the page on the Vanthampur epoch..."

Sure, random murders featuring unusual dismemberments were rampant as ever. Pirates and assassins were known to open portals to Avernus in little curio shops, or punt githyanki eggs off cliffsides sparking draconic wars. And yes, the Fist was still bastard-in-chief of every coin that saw the light of day, with the Guild taking the other half. But the locals had a real pride for what they had retaken from the illithid spawn, the evil from below obliterating the upper noble houses just as equally as the lower slums.

"I knew it, there they are!" suddenly a pair of oddly dressed men motion directly to the Prince's table, holding a few crumpled handfuls of Academy pamphlets. They look like two librarians that have taken a mid-life spin with haute couture fashion, and the scissors slipped. Gaudy, almost shiny red fabric. Inexplicable cut outs for the belly button holes (outies) and inner thighs. The stylistic choices were too specific to be purely artistic choices of the ugly, balding men with glasses. "...It's those wise guy pamphleteers stepping all over our spring recruitment campaign!"

"Excellent work, Pudgetackle. It's time someone put these turtle distributers in their place. You there! You have some explaining to do. You've been over fleecing the locals with your second-rate, unfunny flyers. Do you know how hard it is to convince someone to take a pamphlet? Now how much harder is it when they have already taken one that day, hmm? Did you think of that?"

Through the cigar smoke, the polished gith head at Yahs' belt stared back at the pair apathetically. The quiet black kitty-cat packing a mean 1488 Polished Vega Blaster Special Edition at his side was keeping the last of the plasmoid's H'cathan death kittens snuggled safely behind her boots. A burst of feathers from a chicken called 'parrot' luckily broke the tension between the warring factions.

Thom's attention was on the skies, as ever, scanning the surface thoughts of the patrons in turn, beginning with the small halfling who likened the celestial event to an unfinished Game of Marbles. It was as good an explanation as any.

"Nonsense." Came a strong voice from the handwashing station. "You're as confused as these so-called astronomers what with their ephemeris generators and their Bok globules..." the handsome tiefling with the charcoal-dust stubble clinging to his stone-chiseled jaw rambled authoritatively. "It's those damned roving maulers. They've slumbered quietly for years with their pentagram of paws." He opens up a well-bookmarked leather notebook, turning it round for all to see "Behold! The mauling prophet. 'Firey trails upon the ink-black canopy, slashing the night like claws'. Do you really believe its just a coincidence?"

Unceremoniously, he held up a small paper cup with a few coppers, rattling it. "Only 99cp to hear more. Act now and get a free roving mauler sticker (hypoallergenic of course)."

Harding · May 4

Raaol

Raol Whiskerdust Mew Warlock 5

Raaol's tail flicked irritably as he listened to the commotion around him, the cacophony of voices and clattering dishes grating on his nerves. The unexpected dentistry convention had thrown a wrench into what was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon, and he found himself longing for the relative tranquility of the Atomic Meteor.

As Tender Henk caught a break amidst the chaos, Raaol couldn't help but envy the half-orc's momentary respite. The tension in the air was palpable, fueled by the unruly crowd and the looming presence of the Fist.

His attention was drawn to Captain Sartell's response to Prince Celsior's inquiry about Flapjack, the mention of the "tadpole" incident sending a shiver down Raaol's spine. The memory of the mind flayers and their insidious plots still haunted him, a reminder of the ever-present dangers lurking in the shadows of Baldur's Gate.

Suddenly, the arrival of two oddly dressed men diverted Raaol's thoughts, their accusatory gestures and crumpled pamphlets casting a shadow over the table. He watched with a mixture of amusement and annoyance as they confronted the Prince, their complaints about the Academy's recruitment campaign falling on deaf ears.

As the tiefling with the charcoal-dust stubble joined the fray, Raaol couldn't help but roll his eyes at the mention of roving maulers and fiery trails. The man's impassioned ramblings bordered on absurdity, and Raaol found himself growing increasingly impatient with the spectacle unfolding before him.

He sighed heavily, sliding his weapon back into its holster beneath his poncho before gracefully dismounting the relatively tall stool where he had been seated. Approaching the Tiefling doomsayer with a mixture of skepticism and pure frustration etched on his face, he shoved his hands into his haversack and retrieved a couple of random coins. Without ceremony, he dropped them unceremoniously into the cup before speaking.

"Just spit it what you know and buzz off! Your incessant yapping is ruining the taste of my wine, and I thought only clowns could do that. But... you're not working or affiliated with clowns I hope?" His voice was laced with a hint of menace as he spoke, his hand hovering near his firearm. It was a calculated move, intended more to intimidate than to harm. "Because, you see... I... really... hate clowns," he added, his eyebrow raised in a silent challenge.

OOC: Intimidate roll down there, for the lol and giggles. Raaol placed 3 golds in the paper cup.

Mechanics

Main Hand: +1 Pistol
Off Hand: Shield

Action: Your action goes here.
Bonus Action: Your bonus action goes here.
Move: Your movement goes here.
Manipulate: Your one free object interaction goes here.

Edited May 5 by Harding (see edit history)

KingGoblin · May 5

Klaktuk Cha-Pok but most people call me Steve

Inspiration Yes | HP 43/43 | HD 5/5d8 | AC 15 | Passive Perception 16
StrSave +0

Athletics +0 10 | Dex 14 | ConSave +2 14 | Int 10 | Wis 10 | Cha 18
Bardic Inspiration 4/4 | Chameleon Carapice | Thri-kreen Telepathy
Spells +7 DC 15 | Cantrips | Spells Known Slots: 1st 4/4 | 2nd 3/3 | 3rd 2/2

Steve tilts his head to the side, although he continues plucking at the strings of his strange instrument, as the plasmoid approaches and speaks. <<Good>> he projects, to anyone in the area paying attention. <<I have experience on ships, although I am not a spelljammer. It might be good to learn, if that is something your academy offers; since my kind doesn't waste time with things like sleep, I would be able to keep a ship moving indefinitely. But yes, anything else I would be happy to learn, especially if it got me out in the void again.>> Although, again, he doesn't stop playing his music, one of his secondary hands reaches out to shake with Yahs.

He glances over at the cat hissing at the actual demon cultists recruiting for a demon cult with their demon cultist flyers. Strange. Cats would probably make excellent dentists. Perhaps he got lost trying to find his convention.

Mechanics

Active spells: Going to pretty much always have Comprehend Languages active, as a ritual.

Action: -

DM-Tareth · May 5

Yahs shakes the thri-kreen's extended hand. "Indeed, teaching those with the talent the ins and outs of actually piloting a ship is one of the core mission's of the academy." She replies. "But even more importantly..."

Her deep dive into the all the various opportunities offered by Fleet service, especially those related to ship cleanliness and the best ways for removing blood stains (regardless of whether it is one's own blood or that of the enemy) from wood, canvas, or a standard uniform is interrupted by the newcomers and the subsequent outburst by the feline fellow. Her eye pods swivel around to take in the scene, followed shortly by the rest of her body. She immediately sympathizes with the catkin, not just because he reminded her of young Catrick Swayze the Second, despite the fellow's having two eyes, but also because he clearly hated space clowns. That was something she one hundred and ten percent supported. Her experience at the academy had done little to change her own dislike, even if Zibbles wasn't responsible for the sabotage.

"It's a somewhat free city." Yahs says calmly to the one called Pudgetackle. "The right to distribute recruiting materials is outlined within the most recent set of council ordinances and our pamphlets are approved under Fleet regular standards of outreach and marketing materials per regulation chapter six hundred dot thirty-two dot fifteen section a through q." She waves a hand toward the near riot conditions of the dentist convention across the street. "And frankly, if your cult is having difficultly recruiting with a crowd of dentist's in town, then that's on you. We all know demonic blood flows within the veins of any dentist. That crowd should be easy pickings for such a recruitment drive. Perhaps it is the absurd uniforms that are holding you back? Maybe advertising your lack of diet and exercise isn't the best way to attract recruits...or dates for that matter." She adds pointing a pod at the man's belly trying to squeeze its way through the uniform's midriff portal.

Text_1	Text_2	Text_3	Bold_1	Accent_1	Mood_1
Warm_1	Warm_2	Warm_3	Bold_2	Accent_2	Mood_2
Cool_1	Cool_2	Cool_3	Bold_3	Accent_3	Mood_3
Bright_1	Bright_2	Bright_3	Bold_4	Accent_4	Mood_4

Seeds of Destruction (Part 1)

Recommended Posts

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites